


It’s Not Anachronistic If I Don’t Set A Definite Time Period

by callmeR, TheBiFromUNCLE



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Enthusiastic Consent, F/M, Oral Sex, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-11-06 16:49:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17943539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmeR/pseuds/callmeR, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBiFromUNCLE/pseuds/TheBiFromUNCLE
Summary: Left destitute by her father's gambling, Gaby is forced to leave her beloved Paris to marry a complete  stranger,





	It’s Not Anachronistic If I Don’t Set A Definite Time Period

Gaby stared out the train window, watching the familiar slip away and the landscape become cold and alien. She had seen snow before but this was different from the soft, fluffy flakes she knew. In Paris the snow never lasted long enough to freeze, become compacted and then hidden under a layer of the next day’s snow. This was a world of hard grey ice, away from the lights she loved.  
When she told him, Napoleon had offered to marry her on the spot. Full of his usual bravado he had dropped to his knee, hand pressed to his heart and promised to make an honest woman of her, but his eyes betrayed him. She laughed at him so she wouldn’t cry. No, to break an engagement already made would be too much of a disgrace. Never mind that it was her father’s gambling that had whittled away the family money that had landed her in this situation. No, disgrace was women’s work, she thought bitterly, crumpling the letter that expressed her father’s regret that due to an unexpected business opportunity he would not be able to attend. She would walk down the aisle alone.  
‘Bastard’. She whispered to herself. ‘Arschloch’. She continued like this for some time, allowing herself to get worked up. If she was full up on anger, there was no room for fear. This strategy had served her well, but it was not without consequences. On the last day she had seen Napoleon, he had presented her with a truly beautiful fountain pen and stationary set. ‘Keep in touch’, he smiled. Gaby had flown into a rage and had him thrown out. It wasn’t just the pity in his face that infuriated her, but the sadness and the acknowledgment that he would miss her. When her mother died, when the money went, so many friends had simply drifted away. Their abandonment made moving on easy. Gaby could simply lock the door to that part of her heart and forget them.  
There was a carriage waiting for her at the train station, which brought her to an estate a short way out of the city. In the dark and the snow it brought to mind enchanted castles, hiding monsters in the towers. This impression was not helped by the late hour and there being only a single maid with a single candle awake to welcome her. Gaby followed the flickering light up stairs and down corridors, paying no mind to where she was going, too tired to orientate herself.  
‘She could open a window and say ‘This way Miss’, and I would walk right out’, she thought to herself.  
Instead Gaby was led to a room with a single bed and embers glowing in the fireplace. She scarcely had her shoes off before she was fast asleep.

‘Up, up’, Gaby was being pulled out of bed much too early. The room was full of women all calling out to each other in an incomprehensible Russian. She was dunked in a tub of frigid water and gasping, was stuffed into a dress. She’d been too tired to think of eating last night but now that she was ravenous, there seemed to be no sign of food oncoming. She was dizzy and at the church doors before she was properly awake and aware of what was happening. The ceremony was today?? She had hoped to at least be introduced to her betrothed beforehand. Fear flooded her at the thought of the stranger, in this strange country waiting for her at the altar and there wasn’t enough anger in the world to stem it. A bouquet was placed in her hands and she stumbled unthinking, unseeing towards door. A hand caught her elbow before she could fall.  
‘Napoleon!?’  
He arched his eyebrows, linking his arm with hers.  
‘What are you doing here?’  
‘You invited me’, he explained patiently. ‘Now hush, it’s very unattractive to be seen chatting while walking down the aisle’. And they were. The aisle seemed impossibly long and short at the same time and suddenly Napoleon was pressing a kiss to her temple and he was gone from her side. The ceremony passed in a blur, with Gaby trying in sneak inconspicuous glances at the imposing man beside her. He never looked at her once. A smile, a wink, a rueful shrug of the shoulders, anything to suggest some sort of camaraderie, that this was difficult for him as well, would have been welcome. He was handsome, yes, but like a mountain is handsome. There to be admired from afar, not to touch or to love. Suddenly he- Illya, her husband- was turning towards her and giving the most perfunctory of kisses. A brush of the lips and he was away again. He took her arm as they left the church but held himself at a distance, compared to Napoleon who had leaned into her, pressing against her side.  
The reception passed in endless introductions, Illya thanking guests at her side. After the meal (which despite her earlier hunger, Gaby now only picked at) the couple had their first dance. More and more as the day went on, Gaby felt as if she wasn’t really there, like she was a mannequin, being dressed up and moved from place to place, positioned accordingly. Not once during the dance did Illya’s eyes meet hers. Instead he stared over her head, brow furrowed. And then he was gone again, more people to talk to, and Gaby was left sitting at the banquet table, watching others dance at her own wedding. Napoleon, who she hadn’t been able to speak to since before the ceremony, managed to escape the flock of eager young debutantes to dance with her twice but for the most part she was left alone. Well, if they were going to be rude, so was she! Exhausted and without saying goodnight to anyone, Gaby made her way back to her bedroom, only to find a maid stripping the bed. The maid flustered and fussed around Gaby like a plump little Russian hen and ushered to another room. This one was much more spacious with a large couch in front of the fireplace and the bed- the bed was like out of a fairytale. A four-poster ordeal, piled high with pillows, Gaby thought she’d need a ladder. She changed out of her dress- her wedding dress- and considered lying in that bed, in the dark. Waiting. There was no way she would sleep, eyes closed, anticipating feeling the mattress dip beside her. No, in her nightgown she settled on the couch by the fire instead. Or that’s what she intended. As the fire died, a chill crept into the room and she crept closer to the fire. There was a basket of logs but when she dropped one into the fireplace it only succeeded in squashing out more embers. Gaby swore loudly, just as the door opened and she fell back from her crouch by the fireplace. Framed in the doorway, Illya seemed even taller.  
‘Gabriella’, he said, slowly.  
‘Gaby’, she snapped. ‘Do something about this fire, it’s freezing in here’.  
He was across the floor and kneeling beside her quickly, nodding to himself as if memorising what she had said.  
‘Get in bed’. It was not a request.  
It was difficult to remain haughty will trying to clamber into that gargantuan bed, but Gaby managed as best as she could. Within minutes the fire was crackling cheerfully and Illya had left the room. He returned with a thick blanket bundled in his arms, which he pulled over Gaby, already under the bed’s duvet and pulled it up to her chin. He met her eyes for the first time that day and his face seemed softer. Maybe it was because he wasn’t towering so high above her now.  
‘You will tell me if you are still cold’. This was not a command. Despite his blonde hair, Illya’s eyelashes were very dark as he glanced down, dipping his head in an almost-bow. He extinguished the gas lamps and Gaby listened to him move around in the darkness until he got into bed.  
‘Goodnight, Gaby’.  
‘Goodnight’. A pause. ‘Illya’.  
She fell asleep listening to him breathe.

The following days were….strange. Like the days after Christmas, when the excitement is all over and no one knows quite what to do with themselves. Every morning Gaby woke up to find the other side of the bed cold. However Illya was always there to have breakfast with her. Gaby and Napoleon explored the house together and when they had it thoroughly mapped, Illya offered to give them a tour of the grounds. He would occasionally point out features of interest but was for the most part content to walk ahead while the other two dawdled. He did not seem concerned about their friendship but Gaby still felt compelled to broach the subject at breakfast.  
‘It won’t offend Napoleon. If you ask him to leave’.  
Illya lowered his cup of coffee and tilted his head.  
‘He never knows when he’s outstayed his welcome’, Gaby went on, in a rush.  
‘The American is your friend’, Illya said, lifting his cup again to take a sip. ‘This is your home. He is welcome here for as long as it pleases you’.  
‘Oh’  
‘How did the two of you meet?’ This was different. Their breakfast conversations had rarely strayed from the weather.  
‘In Paris. I was sent for finishing school and Napoleon was studying art. After school, I stayed. Got a little apartment by myself’.  
‘Discussed philosophy at the salons, became toast of Paris’, Illya replied. Gaby looked at him. He flicked his eyes up from his plate and back down, the palest ghost of a smile on his lips. Was that a joke? Was he teasing her? She thought back through all their conversations. He had always seemed so serious, but perhaps he was just being deadpan?  
‘Something like that’, she said lightly. ‘We went to a lot of galleries. Napoleon is something of a magpie when it comes to art’.  
‘And clothes’, Illya scoffed and as Gaby laughed he said, ‘You were happy there’. Illya didn’t seem to ask many questions.  
‘Yes, until the money-’, she stopped. She had forgotten herself. Illya shifted in his seat, uncomfortable.  
‘This was not what you wanted, I know this’, he spoke softly. ‘But I hope that you can be happy here’. Napoleon’s eyes were almost the exact same shade of blue but they had never been clear of guile. It hurt to look at.  
‘I hope that we could be happy together’. Gaby did look away, when he took her hand, running his thumb across her knuckles. She concentrated on trying to breath away the lump in her throat. She squeezed his hand.

Napoleon left three days later, with some reluctance.  
‘I don’t like leaving you here, alone’, he frowned. They strolled past the lake on the grounds.  
‘What are you going to do, throw me over your shoulder and commandeer a train?’ Gaby snapped. There was more fondness behind it that exasperation.  
‘I don’t mean to be crass-‘  
‘That’ll be a first’.  
‘But has the union been consummated?’ He continued, smoothly ignoring her.  
Gaby paused a moment, then resumed walking briskly, keeping her gaze firmly ahead. ‘He is being a gentleman’.  
‘A gentleman? Or has he spent too long as a bachelor? Maybe I should stay after-’  
A sharp elbow to the gut silenced Napoleon and Gaby thought. Illya could be courteous to the point of distant. He always waited until she was changed into her nightgown and in bed before entering the room, always knocking to be sure. But sometimes she caught him looking at her when he thought she couldn’t see and the expression made the breath catch in her chest. She had thought him an icy mountain on their wedding day, but now he put her in mind of a volcano. The silent, frigid exterior but molten within.  
‘I will be ok’, she linked arms with Napoleon and leaned her head on his shoulder.  
‘I can be happy here’.

To her surprise, Illya seemed distraught that Napoleon had left. Distraught for Illya meant he was slightly fidgety.  
‘We have been invited to a party’, Illya finally explained when Gaby pressed him.  
‘I am not good dancer. At these parties, I prefer to say hello, make appearance, then leave’, he folded his arms, staring resolutely over her head. ‘Do not like to see you sitting alone, not knowing anyone. The Cowboy is a good dancer. I thought he could be your partner.’  
He unfolded, then refolded his arms. ‘I wanted you to have a nice time’.  
This is what marriage is, Gaby thought, biting her lip. Trying not to laugh to spare their feelings, but they are being so funny.  
‘Is it important you go to this party?’ Gaby asked, sipping her tea. Illya shrugged, grimacing slightly.  
‘Yes, I suppose. It is mostly business people who knew my father.’ Illya’s face darkened. Gaby was surprised to already find herself so attuned to his moods, sensing his discomfort. She remained quiet, inviting him to say more.  
‘My father fell out of favor with tsar when I was young. We lost many friends, and many were also business contacts. I have worked long to rebuild Kuryakin name’ Illya said to his breakfast plate. ‘To maintain relationships now, I must attend parties and other social events. I do not like them much,’ he admitted, finally looking at her.  
‘Hm,’ Gaby found herself thinking. ‘We have more in common than we know.’  
‘I know how it is to feel uncomfortable because of a father’s folly,’ she said aloud. Illya looked at her, saying nothing but she knew he must be thinking what she was: My father’s folly is why I am here. Gaby found herself regretting mentioning her father, and briskly said, ‘Well, if it is important for you to go, then we will go. And if it’s important to you, it’s important to me.’  
Illya’s smile spread across his face like a sunrise. 

‘I have surprise for you,’ Illya said after knocking politely at the bedroom door. Gaby had just finished her hair for the party and rose from the vanity to meet him. Illya stopped in the doorway at the sight of her, suddenly awkward. Gaby’s maid curtsied and left, and Gaby walked to Illya, careful in her fancy gown.  
‘You look...beautiful,’ Illya said as she reached him. Gaby blushed, surprised at how much the compliment pleased her.  
‘Thank you,’ she replied. ‘You look very handsome,’ she returned. It wasn’t a lie. Illya was striking in his dark blue suit, the waistcoat and jacket tailored carefully to his large frame. Illya smiled gently at her, then the smile turned impish. Gaby suddenly noticed he was hiding both hands behind his back.  
‘You mentioned a surprise?’ Gaby prompted. Illya brought his hands out from behind his back, both in tightly closed fists. Gaby huffed a laugh, surprised with this sudden playfulness. Illya tilted his head at his right fist, raising his eyebrows. Gaby reached a hand to his left fist instead, and he shook his head, again tilting his head to his right. Gaby gave in and tapped on his right fist. He opened it, and she found nothing inside. She scoffed.  
Illya’s smile widened, and he opened his left fist. Gaby nearly gasped aloud - in his palm lay a beautiful, delicate ring - a flawless ruby circled in gold, intricately wrought in a vine design. Gaby looked up at Illya, too stunned to say anything. He smiled gently at her and slowly, as if not to frighten her, took her hand, sliding the ring onto her middle finger. It fit perfectly.  
‘Thank you,’ Gaby managed finally. ‘It is incredible.’ She looked up to Illya to find his eyes soft, and, unexpectedly, sad.  
‘It was my mother’s,’ he finally said. ‘I thought it would suit you.’  
Gaby was already wearing shoes with heels, but she still had to stand on her very tiptoes to press a kiss to Illya’s cheek. 

The room was sparkling - the guests, the jewels, the silverware, the candelabras. Gaby found herself thinking of Paris, and the parties she’d attended there. The grandeur of this room nearly matched the opulence of the French. At her side, Illya was tense. She peeked up at his face and saw his mouth downturned. Gaby squeezed his arm where her hand rested and he looked down at her. She gave him a small smile and he returned it, and they turned together to plunge into the social fray.  
Since Gaby didn’t speak much Russian, she was lost after introductions and settled for observing the guests and listening to Illya speak. When he spoke in his native tongue, the words flowed easily and beautifully, and Gaby found herself enjoying the conversation despite understanding none of it. She curtsied and kissed cheeks politely, smiling when the guests offered their congratulations on their marriage - she knew enough Russian to understand that. At last she and Illya approached the party’s host, Count Oleg. Gaby could feel the tenseness building again in Illya, and when she looked at him his mouth was a grim, tight line. He greeted Count Oleg with deference, and introduced Gaby. Oleg bowed and kissed Gaby’s hand, smiling, but there was no warmth in it. Gaby disliked him immediately. Oleg turned to Illya and said something in Russian, which made Illya even tenser, if that were possible, and Gaby watched his nostrils flare. Illya gave a short reply, bowed to Oleg’s wife, and walked away with Gaby.  
Gaby steered them toward the refreshments, feeling that Illya could probably use a drink. She picked up two glasses of wine and offered him one, which he gladly accepted. He took a deep drink then sighed and looked down at her, smiling ruefully.  
‘Well, we have done our duty,’ he said. ‘We can stay longer if you like?’  
Gaby ignored his question. ‘How do you know Count Oleg?’ Illya’s smile disappeared. Gaby waited and sipped her wine. Silence, she had found, was the most effective way to get information from Illya.  
‘He was father’s business partner,’ he said at last. Illya stared into the distance above Gaby’s head as he continued. ‘As soon as tsar turned against my father, so did Oleg. I have worked hard to get in his good graces, and he likes to remind me often of my father’s failures.’ Gaby had never seen Illya like this - he was standing rigid but was shaking, his fists clenched. Gaby took one of his fists and worked it open, slipping her small hand into his large one.  
‘What did he say after he kissed my hand?’ Gaby asked. Illya frowned, looking even more intimidating.  
‘He said he couldn’t believe I could find such a pretty bride, what with my….family history,’ Illya muttered. He seemed almost ashamed, staring at the floor. Gaby tugged his hand so he looked at her.  
‘You are not your father,’ she said firmly, meeting his gaze. ‘You are a good man. And Count Oleg is a pompous ass.’  
Illya chuckled in surprise. He drained his glass of wine in one go and picked up two more glasses, as Gaby had finished hers as well. ‘He would not like you saying so,’ Illya told her. ‘Oleg likes his women seen and not heard.’  
Gaby, about to take a sip of her wine, lowered her glass and met Illya’s eyes, cocking an eyebrow. ‘And how do you like your women?’ she asked, suddenly daring. A slow and sly smile spread across Illya’s face.  
‘Strong,’ he said, and clinked his wine glass against hers.

She couldn’t say how, but somehow Gaby and Illya ended up on a chaise lounge to the side of the party, ignoring everyone but each other. She had never really seen Illya drink - maybe a vodka after dinner, but not much more. But now they had each had a few glasses of wine, and she was delighted with the results: Illya’s dry humor came out in force, and he spoke with shining eyes about his passions. They discussed politics, Gaby emphatically challenging Illya’s deeply held beliefs about the state’s role in people’s lives. They talked about art, and Gaby told Illya about the paintings and sculpture she and Napoleon had seen in Paris, him listening attentively as she praised the Renaissance painters and contemporary sculptors.  
‘Tell me about your childhood,’ Gaby requested, and Illya obliged, telling her about his mother, the horses he learned how to ride with, and the family home by the Black Sea. It was lost, he told her sadly, after his father fell from grace.  
‘But someday,’ Illya said, taking Gaby’s hand, ‘I will take you to the sea. It is my favorite place.’ His eyes were warm.  
Gaby felt warm too, and it spread from her chest all throughout her body. She and Illya were leaning in to speak, like conspirators planning a devious heist. His eyes were so blue, so open, and more than once she found herself losing track of what he was saying as she stared at him. Was she imagining it, or did he look at her lips more often as the night went on?  
‘And how did you get this?’ Gaby asked, tracing the small scar on Illya’s temple.  
‘Wrestling bear,’ Illya said immediately. ‘We fought on ice in Siberia.’ Gaby collapsed into giggles. ‘You did not!’ she exclaimed.  
‘Yes,’ Illya said, stone-faced. ‘He battled valiantly, but I conquered. I ate his heart, and now I have strength of man and bear.’ Gaby buried her face in his shoulder, unable to control her laughter.  
At last they decided to go home. ‘It is good,’ Illya said, mischievously, ‘Since we have already been ignoring everyone here.’ Gaby giggled, ducking her head so the remaining guests couldn’t see. They said their goodbyes as graciously as they could and collected their coats from the servants.  
Gaby was not prepared for the blast of cold that greeted them just outside the front door. Despite her fur-lined coat, she shivered from head to foot. Illya immediately opened his coat, tucking her inside and wrapping his arm around her under the falling snowflakes.  
‘I forget you are not used to Russian weather,’ he said apologetically. ‘We will hurry home,’ he promised, hailing their coachman.  
Once inside the carriage, Illya insisted on piling every fur around Gaby until she was more furs than woman. Illya then took his seat beside her and wrapped his arm around her, strong and solid. Gaby burrowed into his shoulder, cozy and content. She watched the snowy landscape pass by, and suddenly remembered the tale of Snow Queen. ‘My lord,’ Gaby thought, ‘how long has it been since I heard that story?’ Gaby let her mind drift to the grand Queen and her icy domain, and nearly felt she was a Snow Queen herself - wrapped in furs, hurrying across a frozen land, with a handsome prince at her side. Gaby turned away from the window to look up at Illya, his profile sharp as cut glass against the moonlight. Gaby sighed and closed her eyes, feeling safe and warm next to Illya.  
Illya woke her gently, insisting she keep her millions of furs as they left the carriage. Illya helped her down with a steady hand. They thanked the coachman, then made their way carefully up the icy steps of the house. Once inside, Gaby dramatically flung all her furs off, making Illya laugh. His eyes were soft as he removed his coat and hung it by the door, picking up her furs and hanging them alongside it. They giggled and shushed each other like schoolchildren as they made their way to the bedroom as quietly as two slightly drunk people could manage. When they arrived at their bedroom, they found it delightfully warm with a roaring fire in the hearth. Gaby sighed happily.  
‘Illya? Can you help me with my dress? It’s late, I don’t want to wake the maid’. Gaby said this looking over her shoulder, but turned away before Illya looked up. She didn’t hear him move but rather felt his presence at her back. Felt the warmth of him. His hands were so large but he worked deftly and delicately with the tiny buttons. She clasped the dress to her front as she felt it loosen and was that a sigh she heard as the last button came undone and her back was exposed to the room? Illya didn’t move away and the room felt so small.  
‘Thank you’, she said. She didn’t gasp when she felt his fingertips brush, just once, against her bare skin but she almost groaned out loud when he finally did step back. Behind the room divider, she dropped the dress, pulling her nightgown over her head. Her hairdo began to fall apart and irritated, she plucked pins from it until it collapsed completely. When she emerged Illya was laid out on the bed, his waistcoat removed, but otherwise fully dressed. From her side of the bed, Gaby crawled across and knelt up on the bed and began unlacing his boots. Illya gave a snuff of laughter at the thuds as she tossed them to the floor.  
Kneeling at his feet, Gaby looked up at Illya, who was looking at her, smiling. For the first time, his gaze didn’t make her want to look away, to flee the room. She wanted to be seen and to see him. She crawled towards Illya, until she was at his side, leaning over, a hand on the mattress at either side of his face. His expression had changed. It was no longer wine-sleepy and content, but more alert. Sharper. She lowered her head and kissed him, once. It was similar to the kiss they had shared on their wedding day, but also the furthest possible thing. This kiss made her feel warm.  
Gaby pulled back and watched Illya’s face thoughtfully. His eyes fluttered open, as if waking from a sleep.  
Napoleon was fond of telling Gaby stories about all the beautiful boys and girls he had had in his bed and how he had tied them up, or been tied up, with silk scarves. Gaby had not understood the appeal at the time, but now she felt she was starting to understand. She looked down at Illya and understood that he wanted to touch her, but also that he would not, could not, move to do so. She felt giddy at the thought of how cruel she could be with this, but she did not want to be cruel. She bent and kissed him again, this time placing her right hand on his shoulder. She opened her mouth against his and felt him respond in kind and began stroking his arm, before lifting it and bringing his hand to her waist.  
Permission to move, to touch, granted, Illya’s other hand immediately went to her hair, holding her face close to his, as if she had any intention of going anywhere. The hand on her waist spread across the small of her back and stroked up towards her shoulder blades. The arm then circled her waist and suddenly he was lifting her until she was on top of him. The kiss broke as he did this, but Gaby took the opportunity to pay attention to his neck. Illya swore and tilted his head back as she pressed open-mouth kisses against his neck and fumbled with the remaining buttons of his shirt. How had he been so effortless with her dress? His hand were on her hip, thumbs rubbing circles and it was hard to think.  
The buttons finished, Gaby began pushing at the shirt, kissing Illya’s shoulder, his collar bones. He groaned and then Illya was flipping Gaby onto her back, shrugging out of the shirt and then his mouth was back on hers. She twisted her fingers into his hair. He leaned on his elbows above her, kneeling between her legs. He held himself up as he kissed her, careful of her. Gaby smiled against his mouth in fond exasperation at his gentleness. He huffed a laugh in response and it tasted like sweet wine. Gaby hooked her legs around Illya’s waist and pulled him down on top of her. She wanted to feel his full weight against her. On her wedding day she had felt so detached from her body, it had been like watching the day happen to another person. Now she felt grounded, not trapped, and fully alive in her body aware of every touch and movement and heartbeat.  
Gaby let out a desperate sigh when Illya pulled away from her. She clapped her hand over her mouth in embarrassment, but the way Illya chuckled at her more than made up for it. She propped herself up on her elbows to watch him but instead of unbuckling his trousers like she expected, he began sliding her nightgown up past her knees. His hands were midway up her thighs, warm and solid, when he stopped.  
‘This is ok?’ A question.  
Gaby sat up cross-legged on the bed, Illya tall on his knees before her. She couldn’t resist running her palm across his chest, through the dark hair that curled there. How had she ever thought him cold?  
Meeting his eye steadily, she took the hem of her nightgown and tugged it up over her head. She resisted the urge to cover herself. Illya’s widening eyes and open mouth were comical but she didn’t feel like laughing. He leaned forwards, cupping her face and kissing her deeply. Gaby pulled away- not too far away- and looked up at Illya through her eyelashes. He was breathing heavily but had gone still again, waiting for her to decide. She lay back on the bed, enjoying the noise Illya made as she stretched her arms out above her head. And then he was kissing her inner thigh and she didn’t know what to do with her hands.  
When she felt his tongue against her, she gripped the bedspread, gasping. Illya’s hands were on her hips again, pulling her down onto his mouth. The sensation was…..strange. Not bad, but unfamiliar. Ticklish. Her legs, draped loosely over his shoulders spasmed embarrassingly at the movements of his tongue and every time her heels kicked against his back. Poor Illya, thought Gaby, he’s going to be bruised. And the thought filled her with delight.  
Illya’s hand moved from her hip and was now palming her breast. Gaby grabbed on to his wrist, as if to anchor herself. When her back arched she felt as if she might float off the bed. With his free hand Illya had undone his trousers and was now half jerking himself off, half grinding against the bed. Gaby could feel his moans against herself. And then she was trembling all over and her arms falling away limply.  
‘Illya…Illya’, she gasped. Spurred on by her voice, Illya came with a cry, his forehead against her thigh. Gaby patted ineffectually at his hair and his shoulders until he finally moved up, resting his head on her collarbone. He pressed sweet, closed-mouth kisses against her breasts as she ran her hands over his shoulders.  
‘Gaby’, he murmured, again and again.  
Too soon, he rolled off her, Gaby followed him immediately, splaying herself against his chest and being a general nuisance as he tried to pull the duvet over them. With one long arm, Illya reached to douse the nearest gas lamp, leaving the others.  
And in the half-light, Gaby fell asleep listening to his heartbeat. 

 

Epilogue  
Dearest Gaby,

I had already begun to miss you by the time I had boarded the train, so imagine my delight to receive your letter so soon after our parting.  
You absolute heartless wench. You miserable harridan. Why do you seek to rob me of all the pleasures I hold dear in life. You waited until the day AFTER I left Gaby? When I’ve been dreaming of nothing but the delicious post-mortem since the day of your nuptials?  
Write me soon.  
All my love and devotion you and Illya.  
Your Napoleon

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time posting and I'm really excited to share this fic! Huge thank you to Steph, my first reader, who collaborated on this with me. She wrote the entire party scene when I was struggling with it. She is a fantastic fic writer and if she ever gets around to setting up an account I will immediately link to it.


End file.
